Chauncey
by Golden Panther
Summary: Edmund, Lucy, and Eustace entered the sea on a Tuesday. On that same Tuesday, in a different part of the universe all together, another group, comprised of three individuals, a German liberator, a British doctor, and a brain dead infantryman- flung themselves off a bridge. A story of redemption, grief, and friendship, 'Chauncey' explores the effects of PTSD.


**CHAUNCEY**

* * *

 **-I-**

* * *

 _Paris, France_

 _August 24th, 1943_

Edmund, Lucy, and Eustace entered the sea on a Tuesday. On that same Tuesday, in a different part of the universe all together, another group, comprised of three individuals, a German liberator, a British doctor, and a brain dead infantryman- flung themselves off a bridge.

This bridge, like most bridges, went over a river, however, if one were to be specific, the river was the Seine, which runs through the city of Paris.

The infantryman, whose name is unimportant to history, was a British soldier who bore the insignia of the 27th Infantry. Standing at five foot six and carrying a standard Bren light machine gun, this infantryman was dead long before the coroner could do a proper inspection. Wearing a beige uniform with boots that were too small and three cigarettes in his pocket, this man literally had nothing to live for as he stood with his cohorts against the railing of Pont Alexandre III.

As the sky turned dark, artists of the city called their nightly muses to escort them to inspiration, as if it were the end of the world or the beginning of hell. Music, for music still existed Paris, was somber and bleak. The city behaved as if hope and security had somehow overnight had become meaningless words to her that she yearned to know the meaning of again. The wind, although it spoke, said nothing of joy, only of despair. The artwork of da Vinci, the Lady of the World and Venus of Botticelli, sang the mass along with Notre-Dame and Saint Denis, who realized that the only way to bring Paris out of her despair, was to remind everyone that God still existed.

On the Alexander, a British rodent who was a practitioner of medical health, stood on the left shoulder of his brain dead comrade, carrying a satchel of medical supplies over his shoulder, a belt at his waist (with a first-aid kit attached) and on his back- a backpack, which had a short quarterstaff, a small Derringer with six rounds, and a tomahawk inside.

Looking out onto the Seine, the British mouse beheld the reflection of the moon as well as a blood stained symbol. Turned forty-five degrees, the symbol of irony waved a woman carrying a bag of groceries and a man closing up his flower shop for the evening in the most condescending way a piece of cloth could. By waving to the left.

The German mouse, a practitioner of warfare and strategy, stood on the bridge railing. Carrying a similar belt with a similar first-aid kit, a rapier at his side and dawning a small cap with the symbol of the Reich upside down to signify his betrayal from debauchery, the German rodent looked up to his British counterpart and laughed. "Was werden Sie tun?"

"Speak English, Kaspar." The British mouse replied.

"What are you going to do?" Kaspar repeated.

"I'm going to do the thing my country demands of me." The British mouse said.

Kaspar nodded and turned towards the river again, "It is a shame," he said, "that it has to come to this. I guess that's what war is, it's the arrival of the things you always thought would never come." He sighed and shook his head, as if he were about to release regrets or worse, pain that only recently has surfaced.

"Which is why it must end." Chauncey replied.

"We've been at this game too long Chauncey. We're two old war dogs running out steam and time." Kaspar looked down at the river, noticing how beautiful and serine it was. The water flowed beautifully with everything that shared its space. A clean ripple against a fisherman's boat, a slight crash up against the concrete support of the bridge- all made the world seem a bit less feral.

"I think I know why we invaded Paris," Kaspar said after a brief moment of silence. "Because Hitler loves art and Paris is the city to see it. I have been told that before he was in politics, Adolf Hitler was an artist. Imagine if he would have stayed in art school."

"If he would have stayed in art school in this war probably still would have occurred Kaspar." Chauncey replied, "instead of Hitler it would have been Himmler or Goebbels and to be honest, it would probably be worse with them in charge than it is now."

Chauncey turned towards the brain dead soldier, noticing that his hair, which was short to military standard, was beginning to show signs of dandruff. The man's eyes were gray, like overcast on an autumn day where the temperature slowly begins to drop below fifty-two and the leaves blow into the wind, stirring up dismal conversations about death and the end. The lips, Chauncey noticed, were chapped from a long summer of dehydration and if the rodent were to ask of this person's mental state he would receive no answer. He would not receive an answer to anything else in the first place.

"Face it Chauncey," Kaspar said, "Drew's gone. He's been brain dead for three weeks now."

"We don't know that."

"Has he eaten?" Kaspar asked, looking at his cohort as if he were insane.

"No." Chauncey replied. "He hasn't slept or spoken either, but that means nothing. It could be hundreds of mental disorders. Schizophrenia, Shell Shock, Post-Traumatic Stress-"

"Permanent Brain Damage."

Chauncey turned toward Kaspar as if he were the devil looking up towards the heavens and cursing all things worth saving.

A horse buggy paraded down Quai d'Orsay like a sanctified regent. The horse's headed bobbed and swayed like one naturally does when listening to music. His feet clobbered against pavement, and although it was cement, the horse behaved (and somewhat wished) it were made of cobblestone. The buggy, who was in full capacity at the moment was transporting the Resistance Leader of France and the Chancellor of Germany. Behind this buggy was a large battalion of executioners, Schutzstaffel, were formed in the Spartan phalanx military formation. A machine of death followed by a machine of death.

The driver of the buggy, a Fascist Frenchman by the name of Pierre Jean-Baptiste, carried a FP-45 Liberator, a specific type of Derringer pistol, in his left pocket. A cigar case filled with German cigars in a small satchel was over his shoulder. The Reich insignia on the left and right forearm was subtle to his French native mother, who, like most French, despised the Empire to the East, much like the poor despise the rich, the rich despise the poor and both parties together despise intervention of personal and public affairs. This relationship, the double despising of intervention by outward parties, was the relationship that Pierre believed his mother to be an active member of. Madame Jean Baptiste, whose first name is unimportant to history, was always meddling and complaining about his lowly transportation work, always seeking out the good deacon he once strived to be, and always hassling him with the management of his finances. Thus the secret imitation into the Reich and the position which he currently found himself in.

"Mister de Gualle," the Chancellor, a man who needs no introduction said. "I understand that you are attempting to form a resistance?"

"That is correct Führer." de Gualle replied, leaning back up against the dark leather upholstery that was his head.

"Well," Hitler said, smiling like Cheshire Cat, "we'll just have to see about this resistance movement of yours now won't we?" He looked out towards the bridge and saw Colonel Drew McPherson and what appeared to be a very familiar looking rodent standing on the bridge rail.

"Stop please." Hitler said.

Pierre pulled on the reins of the horse, who signaled his stop by ceasing the movement of his hooves. The battalion behind the buggy halted and stood at attention. Monsieur Charles de Gualle exited the buggy on the left side towards the bridge and quickly rushed to the other side to open Führer Adolf Hitler's door. As soon as the man stepped onto the ground the entire battalion as well as Pierre Jean-Baptiste, saluted as one program.

Walking toward the bridge, Adolf Hitler placed his hands behind his back and without saying a word or looking behind him three members of the well-oiled machine followed his lead each with a Karabiner 98 Kurz, a military bolt action service rifle, loaded and with the safety off, in hand.

Chauncey and Kaspar heard the approaching footsteps and witnessed the beginning of Armageddon as Notre-Dame signaled midnight with twelve rings of the bells. On the final bell toll Adolf Hitler stood beside Drew McPherson and smiled.

"Honorary General Kaspar von Essen," Hitler said with a slight growl, "it has been two years and yet you refuse to die."

Kaspar smiled, "Du verdammter arschficker."

Hitler's face turned redder than a raddish, he wanted to burst into a ball of immature fury into screaming and swearing but decided on a different course of action. He turned back towards the three men who followed, Oskar Pawlitzki, a German from West Prussia, thirty-seven, three children and two dogs, a German shepherd and a dachshund; Omar Spellmeyer, a Berlin native, twenty-eight, no children, and a pet fish; and finally to the right Victor von Brandt, a man from Nuremberg who was there from the beginning, thirty-two, one child, and a small estate.

"Pawlitzki, Spellmeyer," Adolf said, giving them the cold misdemeanor of the devil with the eyebrows furrowed so deep the veins protruded and sweat beads collected on the ridges of skin between the eyebrows. "Bring Mister De Gualle!"

The soldiers executed an about face and sped walked toward the buggy. Chauncey moved over to Drew's right shoulder and spoke something in German, it was inaudible but obvious to Hitler that something was said so the Führer asked him to repeat it.

"I said, why are you here?" Chauncey asked.

Hitler laughed, as he turned towards Victor and repeated the message in German. Victor looked at Chauncey and shook his head.

"Dummkopf." He said.

The soldier spat directly in the rodent's face. Chauncey did nothing, he did not move or speak- he simply stood there and took the insult. As saliva ran down his fur, the Leader of France was forced down to the ground on all fours. Hitler spoke something rapidly, whatever it was it caused both Oskar and Omar to raise their rifles aiming them square in the head.

Kaspar eyed Chauncey as he slowly removed his rapier from his sheath. The English mouse shook his head and watched as Mister Charles De Gualle look Hitler in the eye and said, "I see black light."

Hitler nodded, as he turned towards Notre-Dame, "He therefore turned to mankind only with regret. His cathedral was enough for him." He smiled, "Isn't that right, Monsieur?"

Oskar and Omar slowly pressed their index fingers on their triggers- anxiously waiting to end the last resistance of their supremacy in France.

"Warten!" Hitler shouted. The two men stopped and waited as instructed. "Get him up." He said.

Oskar and Omar hoisted the man up as if he were hung out to dry. Chauncey looked towards the Frenchman, "It's going to be alright sir." He said with a smile, as if to make the situation less than what it was.

"Yes," Adolf said, "it will be perfectly alright Mister Courtney if you tell me everything it is that you know about my policies."

Chauncey sighed and lowered his head, as he slowly removed his backpack and produced his Derringer, loading it slowly. "If I were to tell you that I know just about everything including the location of Auschwitz-Birkenau and Majdanek would you believe me?"

Hitler's eyes locked onto Chauncey like a police hound. For fourteen whole seconds, the Man Who Ruled the World glared into the soul of a doctor whose only job description three years ago was tending to broken legs and distributing candy to children at blood drives and carnivals. It was something that could only be described as someone with fear at his command looking at someone who knew he would die one day. An immortal versus a member of society. Chauncey smiled at Hitler's eyes from hell and thought to himself how Adolf Hitler's mother would feel, if she were to see her son berating people into submission, executing the weak and uplifting the insane to a new level of power that extends an entire continent. When Chauncey was finished he deduced that Hitler's mother would be ashamed for a total of five minutes and then extremely proud for the next thirty-seven years.

Kaspar turned towards Oskar and Omar, and still having his rapier handy the German rodent was about three seconds from lunging forward and handling this situation himself. Charles looked up at him, eyes begging him to do something besides stand there and let him be executed by men he did not know speaking a language he did not know (very well) in his own country in the middle of the night.

"Hör auf, Hitler," Kaspar said, "Hör auf."

Hitler smiled, and while still keeping his gaze on Chauncey said, "Nicht, ihn jetzt töten."

Oskar and Omar fired. The Leader of France, Charles de Gualle, impacted the ground like a frozen slab of raw meat. There was no time between Hitler's command and de Gualle's impact- it was one fluid motion. The shot echoed throughout the bridge and under it.

"When the sun dawns," Chauncey said, "the people will hear of this. They shall rally and cry and revolt and murder all you know you."

Hitler smiled, "What a bold statement for someone who is about to die." He snapped his fingers and shouted, "Erschießen!"

He turned about face and walked back to the buggy out of harm's way.

Oskar and Omar raised their rifles and five other men from the battalion rushed up to join them.

Kaspar looked up towards Chauncey, "We have to jump."

"We can't," Chauncey replied, "we can't leave Drew here."

"We have to!" Kaspar shouted, "He's gone Chauncey, he's fucking gone!"

"He's not dead yet!" Chauncey replied with equal force, noticing that the firing squad began raising their rifles.

"We have to make a decision now, die with him, or jump and finish the war." Kaspar said, looking down at the river, preparing himself. He stopped when he noticed that no movement occurred with Chauncey. The German mouse turned back and sighed, he wasn't ready to say goodbye to his friend, his wasn't ready to die, and he wasn't ready for anything. Kaspar jumped onto Drew's right shoulder and stood in front of Chauncey like a father stepping in front of his son to save him from a literal bullet.

"Chauncey," Kaspar said, "I need you to go."

"Kaspar," Chauncey replied, "I can't do that."

"Yes you can," Kaspar said, "now go!"

The Supreme German officer of the firing squad, who was Victor, gave the order to fire. As the Germans applied pressure to the triggers Chauncey jumped for the river. An immediately death storm of bullets and fury ascended upon all three of them. As empty shells hit the concrete littering Kaspar and Drew with inescapable bullets, Chauncey impacted the water. Omar, hearing a small splash, fired into the river in a continuous circle where the ripples were. Chauncey slowly made his way to the bridge and hid underneath it. The echoes of bullets stopped.

The world was silent as the sky turned navy. A southern wind blew as the firing squad, the buggy and the rest of them began to leave. When all was apparently quite again, Chauncey swam back out to the river.

"Kaspar!" He called. Chauncey's voice echoed through the archway and even below the surface of the water to the rocks and fish that resided in the river. As the battalion moved on across the bridge and towards the Grand Palais, Chauncey moved out into the open and unbelieving of the silence, called his comrade's name again.

"Kaspar!"

A German soldier by the name of Joachim Böhler, twenty-eight, one child, and owner of a green 1925 Mercedes-Benz, was in the back of the phalanx formation. He walked towards the railing and called his own name: "Joachim Böhler!"

Chauncey responded with, "Du verdammter arschficker, dummkopf!"

Joachim aimed his weapon towards the river and fired. The bullet entered the water three feet from Chauncey's back. Chauncey repeated the insult. Joachim fired again, this time, a bit of steam exited the barrel as the bullet hit the water with a nice plopping sound.

Two feet.

Chauncey repeated the insult again, screaming it as loud as he possibly could. "DU VERDAMMTER ARSCHFICKER, DUMMKOPF!"

Joachim fired a third time. The bullet hit the river at an angle, just below Chauncey's legs. It was not a direct hit, but it was enough of a disturbance of balance to set Chauncey under. His ears rang and his mind raced to orient himself in a dark, brown river. A bit of dirt and soot entered his mouth and as he swam in the direction he thought was up, his lungs cried for air like a beautiful woman grieving over heartbreak does.

 _We've been at this game too long Chauncey. We're two old war dogs running out steam and time…._

* * *

 **-II-**

* * *

The night beckoned the Dawn Treader to sleep, to dream of the eventful day, to conjure up adventure and grand epic poems about them. As the ship lay dreaming, the water was calm and the sea overall tame. Tavros, whose turn it was to play the position of helmsman, was steering the ship towards the Island of Bern, the largest in the series of the Lone Islands. The ropes from the sails swayed like a cradle and as the peaceful night was had by all, Chauncey Courtney emerged from the depths and scaled to the best of his ability, the side of the ship.

Breathing like an asthmatic without medication, Chauncey's lung were on fire. Constricting and collapsing in pain, the lungs were behaving as if he were being punched continuously in the torso. His body quivering from the cold and his senses still boggled from the shock of the bullet, he thought he was headed for safer shores. He thought he was scaling a nearby pier, or perhaps a gondola and imagined a nice bed and a decent meal, if not that, then at least a friendly face, or someone who wasn't trying to kill him, and even better, an Englishman who understood him.

As he reached the rail of the ship, Chauncey, who stood, thought he faint and fall into the water, making his efforts for naught. Still controlling over his movements, the mouse wisely and slowly turned around before falling onto the deck, landing on his back. It stung and he groaned but he didn't complain, he was simply happy to be surrounded by air. A sudden pain hit his chest and for a moment he thought he was going to slip into nothing. For his heart rate slowed and his consciousness of surroundings was nonexistent. All he knew was that for the moment, there was peace and nothing more.

Tavros, out of happenstance, noticed a loose rope. He steered the ship towards the wind and the waves, so it would navigate itself for a while and walked over to tie the rope in the standard sheepshank. However when he walked back to his post, he noticed an unconscious Chauncey. Sighing out of pity, the Minotaur kneeled down. He slowly but surely did compressions with his index and middle fingers on his right hand. After thirty of these, he stopped and pressed his ear up against the rodent's chest. He waited and began the procedure again. Upon the twelfth compression the second time around Chauncey took a breath. He opened his eyes and screamed.

"W-who-who are you, what am I doing here, where am I!?"

"Take it easy." Tavros said, "You were unconscious. You're safe, on a ship in the middle of the sea."

Chauncey looked around but did not see the point of getting up. He breathed asthmatically and Tavros thought that he was going to hyperventilate.

"Breathe!" Tavros said, placing a hand on him, "You're going to be fine. Just breathe for me, alright. Don't want you to hyperventilate and pass out on me again. Now I'm going to take you downstairs out of the open and into a bed, I'll see to it that someone takes care of you alright?"

Chauncey nodded but said nothing. He let the Minotaur escort him below deck into the quarters.

Cots in close quarters swayed east to west slowly as if a mother were singing a sweet lullaby into a child's ear. The ropes that kept the upper cots in place gently grazed a few pots and pans and other items that were stretched along the shelf and the ceiling. Nestled in their bed, Eustace, the blonde precious Cambridge native, was desperately searching for a dream to latch onto, while Reepicheep, his upstairs neighbor, a mouse respectively, had no trouble at all with this. Upon Tavros' descent into the realm of sleeping souls, Eustace, who wasn't really asleep to begin with, looked in the bull's direction and scoffed.

"Aren't you supposed to be steering the ship?" He asked.

"Don't worry about that, I've steered her straight." Tavros replied, "Another soul from the sea. He seems to be suffering from shock."

He placed Chauncey in the nearest available cot, the one diagonal from Eustace on the lower level up against a wall and beside a shelf.

"Great," Eustace said, upon realizing who, or more accurately what, Chauncey was, "another one. I'm surrounded by them apparently." He sighed and closed his eyes, "Is there no end to this circus?"

Tavros did not respond to that, instead he bid Chauncey good night and went back to his duties on deck.

Chauncey meanwhile, got himself situated and looked up, seeing the bottom of the cot and realizing how dark and gloomy it was, much like the Seine.

His mind drifted off into internal thought moments later, and during these times just before sleep, he would often talk with Kaspar about the day, what could have been better, or what should have occurred instead.

"Today I jumped into the Seine River and you died." Chauncey said. "Isn't that awful? The last memory of you is you saying nothing. I hope you fought well. I keep hoping by sheer luck that you survived it. I know you didn't. You died, and that's the end of today."

He turned himself over and silently cried.


End file.
